Atobeobocchama
by Shiawase Iro
Summary: Atobe's maid gushes over her master. Oneshot.


Atobe-obocchama, how I yearn for you.

I rise at four on weekdays, five on weekends. After I make my bed in the maid's dormitory I make my way to your floor of the mansion to do a quick sweep. I swap the drooping flowers in the vases with fresh ones from the gardens, for I cannot bear to see you surrounded by anything but beauty. I make sure everything is picture-perfect before heading down to the servants' quarters for breakfast and to see to the preparation of your own.

Being one of the few privileged maids to be able to enter your room, at precisely six-twelve I knock on your door; just loud enough to rouse you from your sleep, just lightly enough to make your transition from night to morning a painless one. I step to the side and blush as I hear you sleepily mumble, "Come in."

While you go into the attached bathroom in your velvet nightwear, I retrieve your school uniform from the wardrobe and lay it on the bed, careful not to cause even the slightest fold in the starchy stiffness of the material. I bow at the bathroom door even though you cannot see me, and leave the room. As I stand outside I can hear the patter of the shower, and it is all that I can do to keep me from squealing like your many fans.

You emerge minutes later, yawning, hair slightly damp and with the air of someone who has just woken up. Yet, you exude dignity and confidence in your every slippered step. I follow behind, never straying too far behind nor getting too close. The butler opens one of the double doors to the dining room; I do the same with the other.

The dining room is magnificent. At the end of a long table blanketed by white cloth is your seat. I pull it out and you sit down. Your parents are still sleeping, so you eat alone. I stand next to you, answering to your every whim and cleaning up any mess you might make. You have never.

You eat quickly, for even though you are still early it is unsightly for one as respectful as you to show up any later than early. In a brisk pace you leave your napkin on the chair and leave. I rush to open the door, and accompany you down the stairs with the butler.

The limousine is parked outside the grand flight of steps leading to the main entrance. Your friend is already waiting. I pass you your leather school briefcase; the butler hands you your tennis racquet bag. You carry for the short distance to the car entrance, before you hand it over to your friend. How I envy him, able to accompany you to school. You do well in your studies, unlike the illiterate me who never made it through high school.

I stand on the steps in a slight bow until the car leaves the driveway, before smoothing my apron and turning back into the house. I make my way up to your room. There, I change your bedsheets and blanket, straighten anything you may have slid awry and pick up your laundry.

Being a hard worker, I am already considered senior to the rest at the age of merely nineteen, having worked under you for only a year. The seniors do not do menial tasks such as dish-washing or dusting. I have the privilege of being in charge of your floor, room, and anything related to yourself. It is hard work, but I am content.

I still remember how I fell in love with you. The day I first entered your home, I was an inexperienced high school dropout, looking for a well-paying job with my little qualifications. I was in awe by the richness I had never experienced, in contrast to the poverty I lived in as a child. The most senior servant at the time invited you to look me over, for your servants' brigade was already overstaffed and I was a most unnecessary investment.

Your were only fourteen then. I was four years older. And yet, you eyed me with the air of a connoisseur.

"Hire her,"

Those two words secured my future, and for that I am thankful.

I hear your limousine in the driveway, and my heart pounds in delight at the fact that you have returned. I open the door with your butler, and stand, head down, until you pass through the entrance, carrying your tennis racquet. You slip it off your shoulder in a swift motion and throw it at the butler. To me you entrust your school briefcase. Sometimes my hand brushes against yours; I am embarrassed yet happy.

You whip off your jacket and I take it, passing the briefcase to a lower maid standing near the stairs. I drape it over a metal hanger I have on standby while we walk to the dining room, for it is already past six. You eat again, at a much slower pace this time. Your parents are still at work and the dining room is empty aside from servants and yourself.

At the end of the day you retire to your room. I stand outside for a while in case of any last minute directions you may want to tell me, then I make my way to the servants' quarters for my own dinner. It is late, but I am the latest out of them all.

At ten I go to bed and close my eyes, where I can finally undo the tight bun on top of my head and let my hair fall loose over my shoulders. All night I hope you call the direct telephone I have next to my bed, but it has never happened. It is only after I give up that I go to sleep, and wish a rousing chorus of rings will wake me up. By then it is twelve.

One day, Atobe-obocchama, I'll tell you how much I love you.

--

A/N: A gushing fangirl maid. Heh.


End file.
